


"Above a Sea of Fog"

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, The Sentinel Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: AU. An academic needs a loan, a police captain has a staffing problem, and a detective isn't lost, but needs to be found.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluewolf458](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluewolf458/gifts).



> This story started as an exchange fic in the wonderful TS Secret Santa on LJ, but overran in terms of words and time, and had to be replaced with a more compact story. However I still managed to complete it in time for it to form part of the Secret Santa Extravaganza.  
> The central idea in this story came from seeing a wonderful painting by a young local artist, which was itself inspired by this famous picture, "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" by 19th century German artist, Caspar David Friedrich:  
> [](http://tinypic.com?ref=2z99nv9)

** "Above a Sea of Fog" **

* * *

_I'm standing on the edge of a rocky outcrop that juts above the billowing ocean of whiteness that is the fog. Above the white, and far away, the horizon is ringed with dark, rocky mountains which fade to a grey-purple as they recede. Closer to me, other sharp crags, some surmounted by dark trees, emerge out of this ethereal whiteness._

_The fog is moving; sometimes it obscures almost everything, sometimes it's allowing faint glimpses of what lies below all this. But what I observe doesn't help me much. The mountains still seem unfamiliar, or at least are unfamiliar in this particular arrangement, though as individual shapes they tug at my memory, itself as foggy as this landscape. Where I can see below, hundreds of feet down, it's all pines, more black than green behind the swirling veil._

_I can look from left to right, but I can't turn to see what's behind me. I have no idea whether a step backwards would be as fatal as a step forwards. But it’s the step forwards that calls to me, that entices me to free myself in a swooping fall through the fog, lost for evermore. Just to drift forever in these clouds, over this sleeping world, in the cold, clean air. It would be an escape from something, though I don’t know what; a tantalising offer of escape that seems to pull my foot forward._

_And now I'm not alone. To my right, a few yards away, a man is standing. As I catch sight of him, my foot drops down and anchors itself again amongst the stones._

_He’s young – younger than me, anyway – and shorter, and his hair curls down around his ears. Like this landscape, I feel I’ve seen him before, but I have no idea where. His face his clear but his body seems vague and indistinct. As he moves closer, I realise that’s because tendrils of the fog are reaching up out of the valley and wrapping themselves around him. He takes another step forward and puts out his hand._

_“Hey, man," he calls softly, "don’t you think you’ve gone far enough? You’re kind of precarious, there.”_

_I look down again. A view of the deep valley breaks through the fog, and I can distinguish tiny trees and a winding, silvery river. There is nothing between me and it – hundreds of feet below - except the whiteness._

_“You wanna take a step back?” he asks, his voice still measured, low and calming, like he’s coaxing a restive horse. It’s a musical voice._

_I consider that option; I consider the tiny river and the deadly emptiness in front of me, and know he’s right. But that doesn’t help._

_“I don’t think I can,” I say._

* * *

_Glad we can always rely on Cascade to produce attractive seasonal weather_ , thought Simon Banks as, with a touch on the siren, he manoeuvred his car through the fog-bound commuter gridlock outside City Hospital and followed a couple of ambulances in through the security barrier, parking in an area reserved for medical staff; he was counting on the fact he’d borrowed a black-and-white for a special dispensation.

He was way behind the major casualties from the afternoon’s situation. There had been enough to sort out at the scene, after the event, and he could hardly have contributed to the medical procedures, in any case. Now, however, it was his duty as Police Captain, and in particular as head of the Major Crime department at Cascade PD, to establish the condition of one of his men.

His mood was a mixture of exasperation and leaden fatalism. Jim Ellison had been an accident waiting to happen, in his view, ever since Simon had taken the man onto his books in an interdepartmental transfer. Not that Ellison was a poor cop – far from it. He was hard-working, dedicated, intuitive and relentless in his pursuit of criminals, and his excellent case-closure rate had showed as much, at the beginning. 

The problem was that Ellison was also solitary, taciturn and surly. He remained closed-off and unresponsive, on a personal level. He disliked team operations, avoiding them if he could, and generally pissed his colleagues off with his apparent inability to cooperate and share, much preferring to work on his own, without distractions. As another of Banks’ staff had complained, it wasn’t as if he was outright insulting; he just acted as if nobody else was there. The fact that this observation could be shared during a department beer-night at the local bar was a case in point; Ellison never joined such outings. 

And then, recently, he'd begun to act a bit weirder than usual. Banks still couldn’t work it out, but had argued against his conscience to keep the guy in the field. That Ellison had got himself hurt at the bank operation that afternoon seemed almost inevitable to Banks, now he considered it coldly. But first thing that morning, with a rock-solid tip that the bank heist gang the PD had been trying to track down was about to strike again, and with both Robbery and Major Crime departments having to co-operate, as both were working on the heists and both were desperately short of resources in the run-up to Christmas, Ellison had seemed the right man for the job. He'd had a run of good weeks, and his mood had seemed to have settled down. 

Which on one level had been the right thing to do, mused Banks, grimly, as he made his way through the hospital corridors toward Intensive Care. Despite the initial chaos of a botched police operation, Ellison had played a pivotal part - explosively so – in freeing the hostages, and in the end had been the PD's trump-card. But now the man lay in a coma. There would be a hell of a lot of paperwork on this one; moreover, Banks didn’t like his people being hurt, even bad-tempered sonsofbitches like Jim Ellison. 

At the entrance to the ICU, he snagged a passing orderly.

“I’m Captain Banks, Cascade PD,” he said, flashing his badge. “You have one of my officers here – Detective James Ellison. I’d like to see him.”

The orderly, barely breaking stride, jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“3B. That Dr Sandburg’s with him now.”

Banks sought out cubicle 3B. At the door, which was draped with a distinctly non-medical loop of golden tinsel, he paused, and frowned as he looked through the glass panel. Ellison was stretched out on the bed, a light sheet over him from the waist down. He was pale, and there were numerous scratches and abrasions on his face and body, together with heavy bruising which, Banks guessed, was only now starting to appear. Oxygen cannula fed into his nose. Sitting by the bed was a young man in a brown tweedy jacket and glasses. His hair was longish and rather wild-looking, and he appeared to be speaking to Ellison - his mouth was moving, though no words could be heard from outside the room. Banks recognised the guy as that civilian from the bank operation. Then Banks frowned even more. The guy was _holding Ellison’s hand!_

The young man looked up quickly as Banks briskly pushed open the door, but didn’t get up, and continued to grip the unconscious man’s fingers.

“Are you Dr Sandburg?” snapped Banks. The young man nodded earnestly and extended his other hand to Banks, who pointedly ignored it.

“Blair Sandburg,” replied the young man. “You’re Detective Ellison’s captain, aren’t you? You spoke to him on my cell-phone, in the bank.”

“Are you a medical doctor, Dr Sandburg?”

“Oh, no, no!” smiled Sandburg, shaking his head, his curls flying wildly. “Doctor of Anthropology, at Rainier University. I took up my tenure about six months ago.”

“So,” replied Banks, gesturing at the hand-holding, “there’s a good reason for your close proximity to Detective Ellison, right now?”

Sandburg glanced down at his hand in Ellison’s, and then looked up again, frowning slightly.

“I don’t believe I’m taking liberties, Captain Banks. I’m not doing anything other than providing comfort. It’s not simply that he doesn’t seem to have next of kin or friends here…” – Sandburg’s eyes took on a steely look with this evident reproach – “… it’s because I believe that it’s this comfort that Detective Ellison needs now, above all things. I think he needs something to call him back.”

“Call him back from where?” asked Banks, slightly nonplussed by the young man’s calm conviction and air of authority.

“That’s what I’m trying to work out,” replied Sandburg. “That’s what we really _need_ to find out.”

* * *

At some point in the previous ten years, some bright spark had decided that the customers of Cascade Pioneer Bank needed some privacy in discussing their financial affairs, and so a row of little glass-panelled rooms were created at the rear of the capacious early-20th century banking hall, away from the tellers and the lines of customers. Very _small_ glass-panelled rooms, which meant that unfortunate supplicants for the bank’s mercy felt crushed and humiliated, at the same time as being clearly seen, if not heard, by everyone else. In one of these glass hutches, sitting on one of the two uncomfortable plastic chairs at a tiny, round wooden table on which was perched an even tinier, green, plastic Christmas tree, was Blair Sandburg. Who took a deep breath and tried again.

“What I’m not getting here, Mr Duncan, is why the Bank thinks I’m such a bad risk. I have a guaranteed tenure at Rainier for the next five years. I admit that my net worth isn’t great overall, but I can provide a number of really good references both at Rainier and my former university back East. My stipend means that I’ll be able to make reasonable repayments, commensurate with the very moderate loan I’m asking for. What’s the problem?”

Duncan sucked his teeth annoyingly. The man had appeared distracted and on edge throughout the interview, clearly not interested in helping Blair in any way other than getting him off the premises. Now he was being downright rude.

“Well, Mr Sandburg…”

“Not wishing to split hairs or anything,” put in Blair, wishing to do exactly that, “but that’s _Doctor_ Sandburg. I’m not some poor Teaching Assistant grad student.”

“On the contrary, _Doctor_ Sandburg,” replied Duncan, “that’s really the Bank’s issue, here. You have to admit, you are still at a very junior level at the University, and then there is the matter of outstanding student loans.”

“Everyone’s got student loans, for Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Blair in frustration, stung out of his studied air of professional courtesy. “They’re irrelevant! I don’t owe them to _you_. And anyway, even _with_ them, I can still make the repayments! Look, you have my detailed application. I make it very clear how I can afford a loan from you. I have a pretty sound property there, apart from the extensive fire and explosion damage, of course. I can get it renovated with the loan and finally have a decent place to live. You’ll get an option on it until the loan's repaid. I say again, what’s your problem?”

Duncan started gathering his papers together.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Sandburg, but I believe I have made the Banks’s position clear. Perhaps you could consider returning to us in a couple of years, when your credit record has improved somewhat.”

Blair thought about starting a non-violent sit-in, but felt the guy would respond better to obsequiousness.

“Look, Mr Duncan,” wheedled Blair, “just because it’s Christmas, can you do me an enormous favour? Could you just… just double-check this with your manager? To see if there’s some goodwill to all men still at the Cascade Pioneer?”

Duncan gave him a pained look, then sighed.

“Oh, okay. As it’s Christmas. Though I can assure you, there won’t be any different answer. You'll need to join the rest of the people at the counter, though. We've been in here long enough."

Blair blinked at the _non sequitur_ , then gave Duncan a blinding and deeply insincere smile.

"I'm _so_ grateful, Mr Duncan."

Duncan opened the door and ushered him out. It was a shock, after the weirdly hermetic sealing of the little room, to be assaulted by the sounds of the banking hall and the background tumult of canned Christmas carols. He let Duncan lead the way.

“With a merry _Ho, ho, ho_ ,” Blair muttered to himself.

* * *

_“Why are you here?” I ask._

_The young man takes another step closer, his foot feeling amongst the jumbled stones for purchase._

_“This is where they say 'Don’t look down!', huh?” He tries a wry smile._

_“So, don’t,” I say. “Why are you here?” The young man balances. He’s maybe ten feet away from me now. Apart from that one flash of a smile, his expression is calm, open and full of compassion, his eyes a deep, dark blue._

_“I’ve come to bring you back. If you’ll come with me.” He stretches out a hand, but I don’t move, and he’s still too far away to reach me._

_“Don’t come any closer,” I warn._

_“Why, you gonna jump?”_

_The quip is so out of character with the intensity of his face that I start, and look at him in surprise. He smiles again, more broadly this time. “Well, are you?” he asks again._

_“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I reply._

* * *

Blair trudged after Duncan. The guy was a weirdo. So twitchy and distracted, and now he was doing something odd with his _ears_ , for Pete's sake.

The banking hall was reasonably packed. Several lines of customers stood in front of the counters, and the doors were manned by men in Santa suits. Blair squinted. _Just a second!_ Those Santas didn't look that convincing, now he looked more closely; not with their Reebok footwear, and the… guns!

A high-pitched wail cut across the musak carols and Blair grabbed at his ears, as did just about everyone in the bank. Not the Santas, though, nor Duncan, who seemed to be hurrying to join the rest of the customers. _Wrong direction, man,_ , thought Blair, as he dropped to the floor and, pulling his backpack along with him, shuffled backwards until he got to the interview rooms. There was a gap between two of them where a door marked _'Data centre: Banking Personnel Only'_ gave access, presumably, to where the bank's computers whirred and chuntered. The panelled lower half of the interview rooms gave Blair some concealment. Panting, he peered over the edge of the panelling and strained his hearing to work out what was going on.

The whining noise had stopped and the Santas were pulling plugs out of their ears.

"Okay, you people all stay quiet! Down on the floor, and no one gets hurt!" shouted one Santa, the only one without a gun – maybe he was the head guy, thought Blair. One of his henchmen-Santas had a round, sweating middle-aged man – the manager, Blair guessed - in his grip, a gun to the man's head.

"Hands where I can see them!" continued the Head Santa, addressing the staff behind the counter. "Don’t bother pressing any emergency buttons, you hear? They're all disabled. No one's coming for you. Open that gate!"

One of the bank staff opened a side door at the counters, and the staff behind them shuffled out with nervous looks and their hands held high. Two more Santas went behind the counters with a number of Santa-style present sacks and started emptying drawers.

"Get to the vaults," ordered the Head Santa, pointing at another couple of his team. "The signal's working and they'll be open by now. Bearer Bonds only."

_Okay_ , though Blair to himself. _Maybe they'll just clear the tills and the paper stuff and get out. No reason for them to come looking for me. No reason for them to let this escalate unless someone does something stupid._

Two men leapt up from the group of seated customers; they had guns.

"Cascade PD!" one shouted. "Drop your weapons! This bank is surrounded by armed police officers. Don't make this difficult."

There was an immediate and deadly stand-off, with the henchmen-Santas pointing guns at the cops, and vice-versa; the atmosphere was hair-trigger tense. The Head Santa appeared to be frozen in disbelief.

"You shoot us, or anyone else in this bank," shouted the cop, "and there are plenty of armed cops outside just waiting to take you out. So don't do anything stupid, now!"

The Head Santa ran his eyes across the crowd of seated hostages. "Duncan, you double-crossing son of a bitch! You'll be sorry for this!"

"Okay," continued the cop. "Get your men to drop their weapons." 

The Head Santa nodded slowly. The whole bank, Blair included, held its collective breath. The two cops gestured with their guns and the gang of Santas, after looking to their leader for confirmation, started to put down their weapons. And while the cops' attention was focused on them, the Head Santa reached into his red jacket and, in a swift movement, pulled out a handgun.

He fired at the cops. Aghast, Blair saw that one, falling backwards in a spray of blood, was killed outright. The other took a bullet in the chest and toppled, dropping his own gun.

Many of the hostages cried out in shock and horror. Blair had to stuff his hand into his mouth to avoid making a sound that would give himself away. He watched as the armed Santas quickly raised their guns at the hostages again, and the Head Santa walked over to the injured cop, who lay surrounded in a slowly-widening pool of his own blood.

"Help him!" pleaded one of the women. "Help him" He's going to bleed to death!"

The Head Santa, ignoring her, picked up the cop's gun and turned away again.

"Now, what do we do?" yelled one of the other Santas, who was bouncing and jittery, waving his gun around with pent-up energy. Clearly on something, thought Blair. Head Santa couldn’t be too choosy about his gang.

"You keep your cool," shouted Head Santa. "We got everything we need here. We got the money, we got Bearer Bonds, and we got ourselves a load of hostages! We're sitting pretty!"

He turned back to face the hostages.

"Now, where are you, Duncan?" He strode along the line of hostages, then levelled his gun at one who was cowering, hiding his face.

"You rat on us, Duncan?" he asked, his voice soft and menacing.

"No, Bobby, I swear, I swear…!"

Blair's erstwhile interviewer was hauled to his feet by a couple of the other Santas.

"Keep an eye on him," snapped Head Santa. "When we need a bargaining chip, he can be the first we shoot."

In the general hubbub of horror that followed this matter-of-fact statement, Blair made his move. He shuffled further back to the computer room door, reached up, and pulled the handle down. To his relief the door opened inwards. He slid through the gap, dragging his backpack with him, and eased the door closed, waiting until he heard a further distraction – a number of hostages pleading for the injured cop - to let the latch click shut.

The room was in near-darkness, but Blair had no intention of looking for any lights to switch on, and give his presence away in the process. He pushed himself away rapidly from the door, and stood up, intending to find a good hiding place or, better still, a way out. But as he turned, he stumbled over something large, and fell to the floor again.

It was the body of a man. Blair scrambled back in horror, his mind immediately associating the prone shape with the dead and injured cops in the banking hall. Then his eyes adjusted more to the small amount of light which came in through narrow windows high up in the wall, and he realised that the man was alive; unconscious, it seemed, but alive.

The second thing that Blair saw was that the man was wearing a Cascade PD blue jacket – a PD cap had fallen to the ground next to him. A gold badge shone at his belt and a gun hung from lax fingers. Blair scrambled to his feet.

"Hey, man!" he hissed. "Hey! Wake up! The bank's being robbed! There are guys with guns, and they’ve shot…"

It suddenly dawned on him that there was probably a connection between the two cops playing at undercover in the banking hall and the guy on the floor. So, the cops had anticipated that a robbery would be going down. He shook his head. So far their plan to foil the Santas had been far from fool-proof. He jostled the man's shoulders, then, in an after-thought, checked for a pulse, and lifted the man's eyelids to gauge a reaction.

Blair sat back on his haunches, and thought. This didn’t seem like a normal unconscious state. It was almost trance-like. He remembered the physiological symptoms of trances he had observed in his anthropological studies, especially those around rituals. This wasn't a heart attack or epilepsy or, if his nose was telling the truth, drink or drugs. Something had induced this state.

He pulled the man into a sitting position and, with the guy's back propped against a computer cabinet, patted his face, and chafed his hands.

"Hey, man!" he called softly." You think you can come back? Come back from wherever you are? I really need you here, man. Please! Listen to my voice. Come back, come back here, you need to come back here…"

* * *

"Why were you in the bank, anyway," asked Banks, finally taking another chair and relaxing a little in the presence of the young stranger.

"Oh, I was asking for a loan," Blair gave him an absent smile. "I had a few savings and bought this old warehouse. Dirt cheap. The place was a basket-case, but I thought if I could develop it slowly, I could achieve something. Maybe get a commune started in it." He smiled at Banks' doubtful look. "Oh, I was raised in communes. My mom is a real 60s free spirit." His smile faded a little.

"But it was also being used as a drug-manufacturing base. That was a complete surprise, honestly. I only found out when the place blew up. But every cloud, huh? At least there aren’t any dubious tenants anymore. I've made part of it habitable, just for me, but I need money to do the rest."

"Great day to be asking for a loan," said Banks wryly. "Did you get it before the shooting started?"

"Nope. And that reminds me. The guy who interviewed me – Duncan, he was called – well, the gang knew him, and they obviously thought he had blown the whistle on them, which is why the cops were there. But as I told Detective Ellison, your guys inside didn't have great timing, to be honest."

Banks bit back a retort. The guy was right – the bank team had been a failure.

"We'd had a tip-off," he said heavily, "and we got the manager's permission to place three men inside. He was the only person who knew what was going on. This gang has been pretty successful recently at a number of banks in the state, and the pressure was on to get the motherf… get the perpetrators, I mean. What we didn’t figure was the ultra-sonics the gang used this time, to disrupt the bank's electronics and open the safes. This was something new in their MO. It blew the bank's security system and our comms links at the same time – well, you know that, of course. But you can maybe understand why it created such chaos, at our end. Our guys inside were expecting us to start the raid, and we were waiting for the signal from them. A mess, though you didn't hear me say that. That’s what comes of inter-departmental operations."

Sandburg looked down at the man on the bed, then reached out and brushed his free hand across Ellison's brow.

"Hell of a brave man, you know?" he said, still staring at Ellison. "Intuitive, lightning-quick… and you had him in the store-room?"

Sandburg switched his gaze, and Banks felt uncomfortable under the stare. He shrugged.

"Ellison's a fine cop, I admit. He's pretty closed-off and anti-social, mind, and he's not going to win any popularity contests at the station, but he's an exceptional officer. Or at least, he was."

Sandburg glanced down at Ellison again, then raised an eyebrow at Banks.

"You care to expand on that?"

Banks frowned. Spilling private information about a comatose colleague and subordinate, who just happened to be three feet away, didn’t seem to be what a police captain should do. But the young man's calm, kind manner encouraged such confidences.

"He's always been difficult. Edgy, irritable, flies off the handle at the slightest thing, like someone's desk light being too bright, or someone's aftershave being obnoxious. The sort of stuff that the rest of us let ride; but oh, no, not Jim. We all just put it down to him being an ass-h… being naturally bad-tempered, if you know what I mean? Then, a little while ago, he was on a long stake-out all on his own. Came back a changed man. Oh, he can go periods where he's just fine, but sometimes he gets kind of vague and disconnected, almost as if he's sleepwalking. Other times, he's a mess, snarling at everyone, complaining about everything, like he's in physical discomfort. To be honest, I suspected a drug problem, and ordered him to get a blood test. Which came back negative, and it didn’t improve his mood any, I can tell you. But the last few weeks, he'd seemed to settle down, so I judged he was okay for today, in a back-up capacity."

"And where he was on his own again," said Sandburg, quietly. "Probably the worst thing you could have done, given what's going on."

Banks glared at him.

"You know something about this, Dr Sandburg?"

"I think so. I was fairly certain when I saw the Detective in the computer room, and what you've told me about his behaviour seems to confirm it."

"What are you talking about?" Banks suddenly felt uncomfortable, but the young man smiled encouragingly.

"Part of my anthropological studies – not my bread-and-butter, but a big part of my interests – is in looking for individuals who possess heightened senses; all five senses, and to a phenomenal degree. Able to see and hear far better than the rest of us, able to detect molecules of scent or flavour; people whose sense of touch means they can discern the slightest variation in their surroundings. They still exist where indigenous peoples are able to live by their traditional customs. These skills are so crucial to the success of their community; for food supply, water supply, medicines, weather forecasting … you name it. These individuals are rare, but highly valued and respected. I also believe that in modern societies, we’ve suppressed these gifts, as they aren't generally needed in the same way, nowadays."

"But you think Ellison is one of these… these people?"

"A Sentinel, that's the term that many communities use. Yeah, I believe he is," Sandburg was nodding and smiling. "He could see things, hear things, find things out by touch alone at the bank that I certainly couldn't. I haven’t seen evidence of the other two senses yet, but I’d be willing to wager they exist, because he zones."

"Excuse me?"

"He zones. He blanks out. The sleep-walking thing you were talking about. From my research, it seems that this can happen if one or more senses become too focussed on a particular subject – a ticking clock, say, or in the Detective's case, the ultra-sonic signal used by the Santa gang. The Detective told me that after the first shock of the noise – which, by the way, would have been extremely painful for him, considering how sensitive his hearing is - he concentrated on the background sound of the signal, to see if he could establish the source and neutralise it. But the sound just sucked him in, and he zoned."

"Until you woke him up. How did you do that?"

"Talking, holding his hands – it’s about providing a sensory counter-balance. A tactile response, and a voice to hold on to, I think. These people can be overwhelmed by their senses – too much sight or sound, or whatever – and when they aren't able to control them properly, they can get lost in their sensory experience. They need someone, or something, to bring them back."

"I usually just hit him," said Banks, in a mumble. Sandburg looked at him sharply.

"Violence isn’t the best option," he replied through tight lips, continuing to chafe Ellison's hand.

"So why is he like this now?" persisted Banks. Sandburg frowned in thought.

"I'm not absolutely sure, but I think it was the blow to the head, when the car hit him and he fell. I suspect there's a built-in mechanism in Sentinels, developed because of their extreme sensitivity to external influences. Whenever there's an event – an injury – that produces unconsciousness, the body can switch to a comatose state to make sure the individual is shut down fully while they heal, so they aren’t bombarded by sensations they can't do anything about when they're out for the count. A Super-Zone, if you will."

"And you can bring him out of this one, too," said Banks. It wasn't a question.

"I'm doing my best," replied Sandburg evenly. "Trouble is, I've not seen a Super-Zone before."

* * *

_"Do you feel lost?" he asks me, taking another step closer. He doesn’t stretch out his hand, this time._

_"Maybe I want to be lost," I snap. "Maybe this is one goddamn way I can get some peace and quiet in this world."_

_I expect him to pull back at this rudeness, this evident rejection. My hazy memory tells me most people do. But he holds his ground._

_"Do you think you can find your way back, though," he asks gently. I don’t want to answer that._

_"If you step back further from the edge," he continues, "it might help."_

_"I can't step back," I blurt out. "I can’t see where to go. I can't tell if it’s safe."_

_There is a pause, while I breathe heavily and he watches quietly. Then he says:_

_"So, let me help you?"_

* * *

Blair's attempts to rouse the unconscious cop were punctuated by worried glances at the door leading out to the banking hall. He expected that door to burst open at any moment and for them to be dragged out to join the hostages – or worse. It was a shock to turn back to the man and find himself being regarded by two piercing eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" snarled the cop, pulling his hand away from Blair's and struggling up onto his feet. Blair pushed him down again, but as the guy had about eight inches in height and a good few pounds of pure muscle over Blair, it was tricky.

"Ssssh! Ssssh!" hissed Blair. "They're out there! The Santa gang! Don’t let them hear us!" The cop frowned.

"The Santa gang?" He paused, as if recalibrating something in his mind. "Oh, right, they did something to the bank's electronics, broke into the security system that way. That was new for them."

"If you say so," snapped Blair. "But primarily, they killed one cop, seriously wounded another, and they're currently holding around thirty people hostage. And _we're_ stuck _here_!"

The cop pushed Blair aside roughly and struggled up, getting to his feet successfully this time. He checked his gun, but Blair pulled at his arm.

"Who are you? Rambo? Calm down a second! You'll get everyone killed, including me, if you barge in there."

"Who said anything about barging?" replied the cop smoothly, but with a penetrating look at Blair. Even in the semi-darkness of the computer room, Blair could see he was a handsome sonofabitch, with eyes that were a light ice-blue. "And who are you, again?"

"I'm a bank customer. I was at the back of the banking hall, and managed to get in here when the Santas started shooting. They didn't see me. Is there a way out of here?"

"Not out the back," replied the cop. "Now, I need to find out what's going down, out there." He raised his hand for quiet, and moved to the door, putting his ear to the jamb. Blair regarded him with increasing frustration. 

After a moment, the cop turned to Blair again.

"The head honcho's telling them all to stay calm and wait for a phone call from the cops. But it's all a front. He's on a short fuse, and the rest of the team are pretty antsy, too."

"What about the hurt cop?" asked Blair immediately, and his eyes widened as the cop put his ear to the door again, and reported back.

"Blood's still flowing, but it’s slow. He's still breathing – just. We need to do something, and soon."

"You can hear all that?" asked Blair, wide-eyed, with a note of wonder in his voice.

"Well, d'oh," replied the cop, who was fiddling with an ear-piece and radio-pack clipped to his belt. With a look of disgust, he pulled it off and dropped it on a computer cabinet.

"Damn thing's out of action. It must have been the ultra-sonic signal. I guess they're using it to block the bank's security system so it can't send an alarm notification."

"And open the vaults," put in Blair. "That’s what the Head Santa said, when he was ordering his guys around." The cop raised an eyebrow.

"That right? Wow, Bobby's really upping his game. Well, whatever else it's done, it’s neutralised the PD communications. I can't check with the team outside, so I've no idea what they've got planned. If anything," he added, in an undertone.

"Your guys in there had really bad timing," said Blair. "They were outnumbered, but they still made a move. Crazy."

"Maybe they thought they'd force the issue, and then the rest of the police team could come in to mop it all up. I dunno. I didn’t know the guys. Anyway, time enough for criticising when we're out of here … hey, phone ringing out there!"

They both pressed against the door. Blair could hear nothing but a muffled voice.

"That’s my Captain, calling," whispered the cop, as he listened to what was going on outside. "Conrad's demanding … oh, that's original; safe passage, a helicopter, and the currency from this raid, or they start shooting hostages, one every thirty minutes." The cop pulled away from the door, and looked around him.

"If I can get out there, start a diversion, then the rest of my team could use the confusion to storm the place" he mused.

"And you'll be committing suicide!" Blair shot back. "On top of which, you might just start a shooting frenzy, and more people will get hurt!" The cop turned to him, exasperated.

"You got a better idea? I'm not going to sit here, doing nothing! Look, there's about fifty officers outside. They could easily take Conrad's team down, and I suspect right now they're planning an assault. But if they don’t have a good idea about what’s going on in here, and come in cold, it'll be carnage anyway!"

"So use your cell-phone!" hissed Blair. The cop shook his head.

"Don't have it with me. A PD ban on them in this sort of take-down; too big a chance of it going off at the wrong moment." Blair rolled his eyes.

"Heaven forbid Cascade PD should have a Plan B," he muttered, and then reached into his back-pack.

"Here, use mine."

* * *

"You could have knocked me down with a feather when I got that call," mused Banks, shaking his head. "I knew that Ellison didn't have his phone. There's been a new central directive – no cell-phones on SWAT operations, in case they interfere with official communications, or give the game away. The PD comms were supposed be enough for this take-down."

"Maybe one day, Cascade PD will limp into the 20th century?" asked Sandburg, with a wry glance. "I mean, it’s almost the next one." He looked down at the quiet figure on the bed. 

"He was a force of nature, you know. Once he'd decided what to do; once he'd come up with a plan."

"He's a force of nature, all right," replied Banks, heavily.

"Tell me about him?" asked the young man. Banks hesitated yet again. Once more, it seemed like an intrusion into Ellison's privacy. But if this guy Sandburg knew what was _wrong_ with the man – or rather, could show him how to control these natural senses of his – wouldn't some good come of it?

"He was Army before he was a cop," Banks replied. "Joined up to spite his father, I gather. The family is Old Money. Plenty of 19th century wheeler-dealing, and good business acumen in the recent generations, too. When old man Ellison died, there was a substantial business empire, which he left to both his sons. Jim didn't want any part of it, so his brother Stephen bought him out of his share of the business, and it left our Detective Ellison a very wealthy man. But he stayed a cop; dogged, pain-in-the-ass cop. And an extremely good one."

"Where's his brother?"

"Moved out of Cascade when their dad died, and runs everything from Portland. His wife's family come from there. I don’t get the feeling that there were a lot of emotional ties around for either brother. Jim now lives in what was the family's summer home – pretty much a mansion, really – in the foothills. I went there once – huge place. Just him, and this great empty house."

"And his friends?"

Banks frowned.

"I'm honesty not sure he has any."

* * *

_"If I hold out my hand," he says, doing just that, "do you think you could hold on to it? And I can help you step back to where it's safer."_

_I'm immediately scared, more scared than I've been since finding myself in this strange place. Terror for myself, for him, washes over me like icy water._

_"What if I pull you over?"_

_He smiles, and shakes his head._

_"You won't pull me over, man. Not ever."_

* * *

"Listen, Captain, I've got a plan," said the cop into Blair's phone. He was perched on top of some computer cabinets where he had been for some minutes. As far as Blair could see through the gloom at ceiling height, he had mainly been running his hands over cabling leading from boxes high in the wall, whilst peering cautiously out of the high, narrow windows. Blair had been looking on anxiously, and with more than a little annoyance – what was the guy playing at? "There's a powder-based fire extinguisher system in the bank," the cop went on. "If I can set it off from here, it should cause enough confusion for you to storm the place and take them out. Tell the guys, it’s the Santa suits they need to target, right?"

He listened to the other voice for a moment, then nodded.

"Okay, I'll call you when we’re set. What? Oh yeah, I've got a random civilian in here with me." He closed the phone and pocketed it, then jumped down from the cabinet, landing as adroitly as a cat.

"Extinguisher system?" echoed Blair, somewhat unimpressed at being dismissed as a _'random civilian'_. The cop pointed up into the gloom above the computers.

"The controls are up there, Chief."

"You can see that?" asked Blair, wonderingly. "It's almost dark in here, and you can still see all that?"

"What is it with you?" snapped the cop. "So I have good eyesight." He paced irritably, clearly thinking. Blair tried to pace with him.

"Damn good sight, I'm guessing," whispered Blair. "Damn good hearing, we already know about. How are you on tastes, Detective? Can you discern tiny differences in flavour? Or in smell? Is your sense of touch…?"

"What the hell is this?" hissed the cop, turning on him sharply. "Get out of my face, Chief, and let me do my job!"

"Do they get in your way, sometimes?" persisted Blair. "All these wonderful abilities?" The cop glared at him.

"I don’t have wonderful abilities, okay?" Then he sighed heavily. "Sometimes, they do," he finally ground out. "Sometimes, they're a pain in the ass. When that ultra-sonic signal first went off, it was so powerful it knocked me on my ass, literally. Once it had settled down, I tried concentrating on it, to see if I could detect the source. If I could knock it out, we could get our comms back. And that’s the last thing I remember before you woke me up. Like I said, a royal pain in the ass."

"So…"

"Later, Chief, okay? I have a job to do."

"So, how're you gonna do it?"

"Huh?"

"You need something to start the powder extinguishers, right? How can you do that from here? Can you set them to test mode, or something?"

The cop pointed up again to the panel high in the wall.

"The system's blown," he sighed. "It was that ultra-sonic signal. It's taken the electronics in the fire system out as well."

"How can you tell? By feeling those cables? You could, couldn't you?" The cop gave him a dark look.

"I can just tell, okay? Take it from me. We can't set the extinguishers off remotely by using the normal controls. But this kind of system should work automatically when the roof sensors detect the presence of smoke, otherwise it would be useless in a real fire, when cabling gets burnt out. We just need something less subtle, to set the detectors off. But – and here's the tricky bit - we've also got to create enough diversion before the powder starts falling to stop the gang shooting hostages out of panic." 

"So," mused Blair, you need an explosion, or an actual fire, or something?"

The cop once more had a hand on one of the cabinets, about to climb up to the windows. He gave Blair a sideways look.

"Yeah. Heat, flame… something like that."

"There is…" said Blair, screwing up his face to recall the details, "… a truly ugly nativity scene right by the main doors. It's big, too, with a couple of strong lamps over it, and a lot of straw in the manger. The figures are those large, spooky waxwork-like things. If you could break the lights, somehow, they might set fire to the straw, and that would…"

His voice trailed off as he saw the cop staring at him.

"Yeah, okay," he sighed. "Kind of a remote chance. I get it."

"Not at all, Chief!" grinned the other man. "You could make a pretty good cop yourself, with that sort of idea. Or a pretty good hell-raiser!" He winked at Blair, and Blair grinned back, feeling stupidly pleased with himself. A small part of his brain wondered what the elders at Rainier would think about his hitherto hidden talents. The cop recommenced his climb and, this time, Blair joined him on the cabinets to peer out of the tiny windows.

The view into the bank wasn’t a good one. One of the hostages was tending to the wounded cop, the junior Santas were looking nervous and edgy, and the Head Santa was shouting into the bank's telephone.

"That's Bobby Conrad," whispered the cop. "We were pretty sure he's been responsible for a whole string of recent bank heists in the state. Today, we were supposed to stop him."

"What's he saying?" asked Blair, now automatically expecting the cop to be able to hear the muffled sounds clearly. The cop frowned in concentration.

"Thirty minutes almost up. He wants some action, or he starts killing people. My boss is playing for time." The receiver was slammed down, and Conrad stalked away to pace the floor of the banking hall. The cop switched his gaze to the nativity scene, and Blair caught his thoughtful expression.

"It's a long way away." muttered Blair. "And they’ll hear the shot."

"Not too far at all, and even closer from the banking hall," replied the cop, mildly." Blair gave him a sharp look, then suddenly realised what the cop was planning to do.

"Oh, no! You’re not running out there and getting yourself killed!" The cop shook his head.

"It's all part of the diversion we need. I'll be fine. Plenty of cover."

"You have to be joking!" snapped Blair, then he stopped short and grabbed the cop's arm. "What if I sound the fire alarm, manually? It'll just be a basic bell, won’t it? It's not electronic? There's a button just beyond the door to the computer room. If I do that, that's the first part of the diversion, and your guys outside will know to make their move. Then you can take the shot from up here."

"Too dangerous," said the cop firmly. "You're not armed. They could shoot you first. And, by the way, you're not a cop." Blair glared back at him.

"You need a clear shot at the nativity, which you can get if you run right into the banking hall in full view of everyone, and get yourself killed. Or you can do it from up here, while I hide behind the interview rooms outside, and no one gets killed. Which is the no-brainer?"

* * *

_"Just one more step," he says, and takes it. He's close enough to touch now, if I reached out my hand. But I can't. Instead, he's the one who reaches out; he touches my arm._

_The jolt of contact feels enough to send me over the edge of the cliff. Something like an electric current flows through me, warming me like a blast of hot air. I'm sure I'm going to fall, but his hand closes on my arm, firm and calm._

_"Give me your hand," he says._

* * *

Blair stood at the doorway, heart pounding. Couldn't he have kept his damn-fool mouth shut for once? He glanced up at the cop, perched on the cabinet and lining up his gun. The man flicked his eyes downwards to meet Blair's. His look was grave.

"Okay, Chief? Remember, fast and low.""

"You might want, " said Blair guardedly, "to kind of prepare yourself for the alarm sounding. You know - like, try not to concentrate too much on your hearing?"

"How the hell do I do that?" snapped the cop, momentarily distracted.

"I think you can do it. I think you've done it before, but you've lost the habit. Try and find that place."

"New-age bullshit…" muttered the cop, but Blair saw him close his eyes and take three deep breaths. Then he opened them again and, with a quick glance at Blair, raised the phone to his ear.

"Get ready," he said to Blair, then spoke softly into the phone. "Captain, give me ten seconds. From now."

The door opened, and Blair dived out, skidding across the polished floor. The Santas were a red blur, but no one turned or raised a gun. He cannoned into the wall and hit the button in the panel with the palm of his hand, then dropped to the floor. The bell started to sound – a ear-shattering cacophony - and Blair sure hoped the cop had managed to protect his hearing somehow. And as he fell, he thought he felt the _whizz_ of a bullet; a split-second later, there was a blinding flash as the lights over the nativity scene exploded, sending sparks onto the diorama below. The copious amounts of hay scattered around the Holy Waxwork Family took light immediately.

From the edge of the interview room, Blair saw the Santas, clearly already caught off-guard by the alarm-bell, turn to face the new hazard. The nativity scene was excelling all his expectations. The waxwork figures were clearly built of some appallingly hazardous flammable crap, as Mary and Joseph were now towering columns of flame - far more _Revelations_ than _Gospel According to St Matthew_. That was all quite enough for the smoke detectors in the ceiling; the vents far above opened, and what seemed like tons of flame-suppressant powder pumped into the banking hall. In a moment, it was as if the blinding fog of the day outside had penetrated the bank's interior. Everywhere was obscurity, chaos and confusion.

Blair saw the cop flash past him, and almost simultaneously the main doors of the bank burst open, sending the Santa guards flying, and a group of armed police stormed through. The Santas started firing, but wildly. The cops, all in vests and helmets, were more numerous and, frankly, had better aim. All but one of the Santas were quickly felled by disabling shots. Blair saw the big cop turn on his heel and head back towards him, no doubt to check he was okay. Blair felt ridiculously pleased.

But Conrad, the one Santa still standing, made a break for it, running behind the counter and clearly making for whatever rear exit the bank had. Blair, struggling up from his sprawl on the floor, shouted at the top of his voice.

"Detective! He's getting away!"

The cop spun round again, saw where Blair was pointing, and made off after Conrad. Blair hared after him, finding the heavy rear fire doors of the bank swinging open. He ran through, and straight into a sea of fog.

If anything, the fog was now worse than when Blair had arrived that afternoon. People and cars were shadowy shapes, some moving, some stationary, with only the glow of flashing amber and blue lights to distinguish the police vehicles. He could no longer see the cop, but he ran blindly nevertheless, hoping to spot Conrad.

A red shape bore down on him out of the fog, and grabbed his arm.

"Oh, you can come with me, mister," rasped Conrad, his gun grazing Blair's chin. Blair, frozen in sudden shock, felt himself dragged backwards. For vital seconds, his mind went blank with terror, and he had no idea what to do.

They reached the solid bulk of a police car; empty, but with its engine idling and its blue light still revolving on top. Conrad wrenched the door open, but before he could be manhandled inside, Blair was conscious of new presence looming out of the mist.

The big cop launched himself at Conrad, striking the man's gun up and away from Blair; it fired harmlessly into the fog. Blair went flailing onto the asphalt, and the big cop ploughed on, slamming Conrad into the side of the police car. But Conrad kicked out, and the cop stumbled backwards, falling over Blair. Conrad flung himself into the car and gunned the engine, accelerating forward and then swinging the vehicle around in a tight arc. Blair and the cop struggled to their feet, each holding on to the other for balance, and Blair realised with horror that they were standing in the entrance to the bank's parking lot, and that Conrad was heading straight for them, intent on making his escape, and happy to mow them down in the process.

Once more, Blair found himself flung aside onto the ground. The big cop was standing firm, firing at the car's tyres to slow its progress. Conrad was still powering forward when, under the onslaught of bullets, an offside tyre blew.

Momentarily out of control, the car swerved sharply to the left, catching the cop before he could dodge away. It struck him a glancing blow, but it was violent enough to send the man up into the air, to come crashing down onto the asphalt, where he rolled once and then lay still.

Blair dragged himself up and ran to him, still looking at Conrad's car which had now made it out of the parking lot. But, as Conrad turned the limping vehicle onto the main highway, another figure emerged from the fog – a tall, strongly-built black man wearing a Cascade PD vest over his dark clothes. His gun was raised, and he pumped a series of shots into the rear of Conrad's car until it slewed to a halt against a line of parked cars, its horn sounding.

* * *

_The hand on my arm is warm, and strong. But it's also gentle. I wait calmly for the man to take his next step, and he does so. I feel his hand find mine, and he clasps it. I shut my eyes for a moment, and I think I can feel some sun breaking through the fog._

_"I'm called Blair," says the young man, his grip firm and dependable. I open my eyes again, knowing I can now turn and take my step; my one step to bring us together, at last._

_"I'm Jim," I say._

_"Hey, Jim." He smiles, and so do I._

* * *

"So, what do you think, Dr Sandburg," asked Banks. "Do you think that maybe you could work with him? Help him?" Sandburg smiled diffidently.

"It's going to depend on Detective Ellison. I can't speak for him, and neither can you, Captain. Whatever happens, I must ask you to keep what we’ve talked about today strictly private. It's an extraordinary thing to be a Sentinel, particularly in our modern society, and the Detective isn't going to want the whole world knowing about it, both for professional and for personal reasons, unless he's good and ready. It's his life, remember?" Banks nodded in agreement.

"Of course. But you'll try? You'll ask him?"

"If he's willing, I can certainly talk to him about it. I'd love to, in fact. I've got a million and one questions about it all, and if he doesn't mind my asking them, then maybe between the two of us we can find a way through."

"Well, I sure hope so," sighed Banks. "I'd hate to see his talents as a cop go to waste. He lives to serve, you know?"

"Oh, I know," smiled Sandburg. "He's a Sentinel. He's genetically programmed to do just that; to protect his community, his tribe."

There was a gentle movement from the bed, and the sound of a sigh. They both turned quickly, and saw Ellison's eyelids flickering. Blair leaned over, grasping the man's hand even more firmly.

"That’s right, Detective!" he breathed. "You're almost there! Come back to us!"

Ellison's eyes snapped open. They looked confused at first, but then focussed. Banks leaned a little closer to the bed.

"How're you feeling, Detective?"

Ellison looked at him wordlessly, and then switched his gaze to the other man – young, smiling, gentle, determined… _there_. Ellison smiled back.

"Hey, Blair," he said.

* * *


End file.
